The Nightingale
by Aliora
Summary: POST SERIES Hidden kindred. A new evil. Slumbering powers awaken. The clockwork nightingale snares the waltzing death. [ABANDONED]
1. Delude thine eyes

I don't own WHR.

_Poor restless Dove, I pity thee,   
__And when I hear thy plaintive moan  
__I'll mourn for thy captivity  
__And in thy woes forget mine own._

_To see thee stand prepared to fly,  
__And flap those useless wings of thine,  
__And gaze into the distant sky  
__Would melt a harder heart than mine._

_In vain! In vain! Thou canst not rise –   
__Thy prison roof confines thee there;  
__Its slender wires delude thine eyes,  
__And quench thy longing with despair._

From _The Captive Dove, _by Anne Bronte

**Chapter One: Delude Thine Eyes**

Robin let the book of poems drop heavily onto the couch beside her. She couldn't concentrate - the reason she'd been reading poems, rather than a novel - in the first place. Listlessness. She remembered a tale of oceanic adventure she'd read some time ago – there was a nautical equivalent to her current state of lethargy. What was it? When ships were becalmed and forced to drift for days? Oh, that's right. _The doldrums. _

She wanted something to keep her busy. Her eyes scanned the small apartment, dull with disinterest. It was clean – no, it was sparkling; she'd already tidied earlier in the day. The floor was mopped and the smell of citrus disinfectant lingered in the room. The living area was tiny – the kitchen opened out in the main room, which was a combination of both the lounge and dining areas of larger houses. A card table and two director's chairs made up the eating area; a small sofa with a mismatched armchair faced the ancient television in their living room. Her pile of poetry books sat next to a glass of condensing water on the rickety coffee table that rounded off their furniture. As she watched, a bead of moisture slid down the glass and followed the slant of the table until it reached the edge, pausing, as if uncertain, before falling to the floor with an inaudible plop. **__**

Exhausted by her own apathy, she forced herself to her feet and moved to the window, pressing against the glass, one arm above her head. Four stories below, people went about their business, milling on the street; men and women in smart suits hurrying past families out to take advantage of the warmer than usual Tokyo day. She felt the stubborn spark of restlessness flare in her chest and pushed against the window pane, turning back to the living room, the ironic name never failing to amuse her. The living room, the room in which she lived. Her prison.

She found herself smiling at her dark thoughts, glancing down at the collection of poems as she walked past the couch. _Serves me right for reading British poetry_, she thought, opening her bedroom door. **__**

There was nothing to do in here, either. The room had a cell-like quality – not in the sense of a jail cell, but the stark austerity found in monasteries and convents. It was bare to the point of emptiness; a bed, a nightstand, a small cupboard in the corner. It had all that she needed and nothing she wanted, aside from a hand mirror lying face down on the nightstand. Even that had no indulgent purpose – it was there only to serve as a reminder of her existence. Every morning she woke up, rolled over and looked in the glass, searching for the face of a devil-child, the visage of an abomination, but finding only her own pale reflection. **__**

She moved the pillow, resting it against the bed head, and sat on the covers, drawing her knees to her chin. Looping her thin arms around her legs, she gazed off into the distance, settling down to while away the endless minutes until her warden returned.

* * *

Amon stood in the supermarket queue, shopping basket braced against one dark-clad hip. Truth be told, it was braced against his holstered gun, so was therefore digging into his side, but the checkout girl kept looking at him, and he didn't want to attract any more attention by shifting suddenly. So he gritted his teeth while the barrel ground into his waist and bided his time, thumping the basket onto the counter when he finally reached the front of the line**_. _**

"How has your day been, sir?" The girl asked him, sorting through his items. He grunted noncommittally and hoped she'd leave it at that. The scanner bleeped annoyingly at the packet soba noodles and frozen dinners that constituted the majority of his purchase. He could feel his foot start to tap in irritation. Everything was taking so long.

"Got any plans for the weekend?" God help him, the shop assistant was persevering. He tried to keep the annoyance from his face. "No," he replied, pulling his wallet from the pocket of his coat. He busied himself with pretending to rifle through the notes within, as if gauging how much he'd need.

"Well now, that's a sh-" she faltered as he fixed her with a quelling glare. She stammered for a moment. "Uh, it comes to ¥25350." He thrust the money into her outstretched hand, grabbed his parcels, and strode from the store, heedless of his inappropriate behaviour.

Amon wondered at his own rudeness. He'd rarely noticed it before, but he could be a real bastard. The girl was only being polite, for goodness sake; there had been no need to treat her like an insurance salesman. He stopped, abruptly, in the middle of the footpath, ignoring the dirty looks from shoppers forced to detour around him. _Could it be,_ he wondered, _I'm always like this?_

He resumed walking. _Surely not_. Someone would have told him if he were always this unkind. Well, Nagira had mentioned his coldness on numerous occasions, but that was Nagira, and Amon usually took his comments with a pinch of salt. But Robin – Robin wasn't one to tread lightly round the truth. She had a refreshing directness and a disturbing tendency to get right to the heart of matters. Yes, she'd sort this internal conflict out once and for all. He shifted his grip on the shopping bags and headed for home.

-

Their apartment was in a nondescript building, a converted office block of gray stone that was as ugly as it was forgettable. He'd chosen it for that very reason – the first time he saw it his eyes had skipped over the dreary façade, flicking back the instant he realized his oversight. It was plain, and boring, and perfect, just one more building in an urban forest full of them. There was no elevator, a factor that worked for and against them. In their favour, anyone who had succeeded in tracking them down had to make it up three flights of stairs, giving them (he hoped) enough time to find their own way out. On the negative side was their own daily trudge up and down the staircase. It was even less fun with armfuls of groceries.

He stopped at the door, trying to remember which pocket his keys were in. A second later, the welcome sound of Robin's soft footfalls reached his ears, and he turned to look down at the peephole, which had apparently been made for pygmies. Strange, he'd never noticed how low it was before. He couldn't remember ever having looked through it. They didn't get many visitors. The tumblers in the lock clicked and the door opened, Robin reaching out to take one of the bags. She smiled at him, unable to keep the relief from her eyes, before making her way into the kitchen. He locked the door, considering the peephole.

"Robin." She looked over her shoulder at him while stocking the cupboards, arranging the dry food in neat rows. "What do you see when you look through the peephole?"

She halted her methodical stacking, momentarily confused. He clarified.

"How did you know it was me? It seems very low; I doubt you could have seen my face."

Her face cleared. "No, Amon, I couldn't. The angle stops just above your chin. Of course I knew it was you." Before he could ask she gave a reassuring smile. "I recognized your shoulders."

He stood for a moment, undecided. He didn't want to tell her about his sudden self-doubt. It just wasn't like him to be concerned about things like that. They'd talk about it, later. Appeased for the time being, he put the frozen things away.

* * *

Sakaki Haruto stood in the elevator, watching the doors, willing them to open. It had been a bad day. Really. First, he'd slept through his alarm, waking to find it had been trilling intermittently for three hours. After apologizing to his neighbours (the pounding on the door had been his true wake-up call) he hurried through the morning motions and ran downstairs, popping his helmet onto his still-wet head.

Then his bike didn't start. **__**

Kicking it hadn't helped in the slightest; although he was fairly sure he'd bruised most of the toes on his right foot. Visions of the ribbing he _knew_ Doujima would be preparing flashed through his mind while he swallowed his pride and called a cab. It wasn't until they were halfway to Raven's Flat he realized he still had his helmet on.

So he paid the exorbitant fare, ran past the guard, who seemed surprised that he was the late one today, flew into the lift and punched the buttons, waiting the eternity to get to level five. After what seemed like an hour, the doors opened.

He was expecting his workmates to be in their usual positions, in varying states of activity. It was with much surprise that he found them crowded around Michael's computer in complete silence. He walked up behind them, trying to see what it was that had captured their attention.

"Hey guys, what's-"

"Sssh!" Doujima hissed, without turning around. Faintly miffed, and somewhat intrigued, he peered over Karasuma's shoulder, squeezing in next to Hattori.****It was a video of some description, two men shaking hands and clapping each other on the back. They were on a podium; a lectern stood a little behind their display of goodwill. Turning to face the camera, they each kept one hand on the other's back, waving with their free arm. It looked like the end of a speech, some sort of merger. Well, whatever it was, he'd missed it.

Karasuma stretched and stepped away from the huddle, frowning at some inner debate. Kosaka strode off in the direction of his office, Hattori following like a dutiful puppy. Doujima flopped into her chair, while Michael rested his elbows on his desk, staring sightlessly at his screen. Sakaki had no idea what was going on.

"I don't get it," he said, waiting for someone to explain. Doujima sighed and glanced pointedly at Michael. The hacker hit some keys.

"It would probably be easier just to show you the tape over. It's a live feed from about five minutes ago, a speech given by the director of SOLOMON, and the head of Acheron Enterprises, one Werner Schaden" Across the room, Sakaki's computer flickered to life, and grabbing a chair, he sat himself down.

The file arrived and the feed opened on his desktop. The picture was surprisingly clear and the quality of the video was apparent even while paused. This had clearly been no shoddy handycam operation.

A noise behind him – Doujima, wheeling her chair over to his desk. She met his eyes thoughtfully.

"I think I'd better watch this again," she said, leaning forward. Sakaki turned and clicked his mouse, now _extremely_ interested in what this footage contained.

On the monitor a balding, heavyset man walked up to the lectern and shuffled some papers, sweat gleaming on his shiny head.

"Myles Dempster," came Doujima's whisper next to his ear. "The current director of SOLOMON's general affairs."

"SOLOMON has general affairs?" he whispered back in surprise. He felt, rather than heard her sigh.

"No, you idiot, it doesn't. But Dempster is the public face of the organization. He's the man who deals with businesses and the relevant law enforcement agencies. Of course, he's just a figurehead. No one knows exactly who he reports to."

Somewhat chastened, Sakaki returned his attention to the screen. Dempster had finished arranging his notes and was now looking into the camera, a serious look on his ruddy face.

"SOLOMON team members, Hunters and other auxiliary agents," he began without preamble, a wheezing edge to his voice. "This international broadcast has been organized so as to inform those within our network that a major modification in SOLOMON's methods and practices will be introduced tonight, effective immediately.

SOLOMON has worked diligently, tirelessly throughout the centuries, protecting innocents from those individuals who choose to abuse their powers. We have willingly shouldered this burden, this responsibility of shielding the general populace from Witches, dealing with their destructive Craft as best we could; with caution, with efficiency, and more often than not, with force."

Sakaki wondered what Dempster was getting at. "Doujima, I know all this." She smacked him on the back of his head, hard**_. _**

"Keep listening!" Rubbing his scalp, he complied. Dempster continued.

"Despite years of research, we have been unable to perfect procedures by which we concurrently pacify the Witch population and protect ourselves from their destructive Craft. But now, times have changed. Here at SOLOMON we are proud to be able to usher in a new era. With the advent of new technology we are paving the way to more humane forms of Witch control –"

Pacify _and _protect, huh? Sakaki was uncomfortably reminded of a material that had succeeded in both of those aims. He felt the loss of his Orbo pendant's familiar weight, and looked down at his unornamented chest, visualizing the small vial of bubbling green liquid…then hastily looked up, recalling the method of its manufacture. He realized that in his musing he'd missed a portion of Dempster's monologue.

" - research facilities, that Acheron had been conducting their own experiments into the field of Witches. An arrangement has been reached and it is with great pleasure that I present to you Werner Schaden, founder of Acheron Enterprises and now SOLOMON's newest recruit." ****

Sakaki watched as a tall man entered the shot. He embraced Dempster then pulled away, nodding, one hand still on the director's back. A moment later Dempster left the stage and Schaden faced the camera.

Werner Schaden looked to be in his early forties. His dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples, but his neatly trimmed beard was free of grey. He was tall, and held himself erect: as if proud of the extra height. As he smiled, lines fanned around brilliant blue eyes, noticeable even behind silver-rimmed spectacles.

"_Wilkommen, mein Freunden!_ We are very pleased to announce this merger between Acheron Enterprises and the _gutes Volk_ of SOLOMON. Unknown to myself, we have been secretly working towards a common goal – to rectify the Witch problem. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement in which we both have the opportunity to further our knowledge – SOLOMON has the information and experience, and I have…this."

Reaching into his suit pocket, he withdrew a small, glittering object and held it level to his face. The camera zoomed forward until Sakaki could determine that Schaden held a computer chip, roughly half the size of his smallest fingernail. It gleamed in the businessman's fingers, his smile visible behind it.

" 'This' is the _Goethe _chip, an implant designed to monitor the use of a Witch's powers. A predetermined acceptable Craft output is programmed into each. Should the Witch exceed these allowed limits, a hunt will be ordered and the Witch will be terminated."

The camera panned out, returning to its original position. Schaden continued to smile.**__**

-

The clip went on for a few more minutes, Schaden expounding upon the virtues of his invention until Dempster was escorted back on camera by a couple of burly bodyguards. Then the two men did the hand-clasping, back-patting ritual Sakaki had witnessed earlier, and the image froze into a pixilated blur.

Doujima had assumed a contemplative pose. "Hmm, it still doesn't make any sense. Why would Dempster do that? A private broadcast – it's just too flashy for SOLOMON."

Sakaki had been considering much the same thing. "I thought SOLOMON had basically given us the finger. And suddenly this video…"

Michael tipped his head over the back of his chair. Despite the blaring rock music from his earphones, he'd evidently been following their conversation.

"I can't source the file."

The two hunters looked at him with comically identical expressions of puzzlement. "What?"

The hacker sighed. "I can't source the file. I don't know where it came from. I'd be inclined to think it wasn't even from SOLOMON were it not for the email that accompanied it."

This was new, to Sakaki at least. "What email?" he asked, at the same time Doujima exclaimed, "Michael! Don't tell me cyberspace has beaten you!"

He gave her a dirty look. "I can't believe it either. But it's not like any firewall or security system I've ever seen before. It's more like…fog. A mist that obscures what I'm looking for, that deliberately shadows the information I need. It's almost as if it slows down my commands, or absorbs them." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I can't explain it."

Doujima nodded sagely. "So it appears."

Sakaki wasn't distracted. "Michael, what email?"

"Oh, I forgot you weren't here." The hacker returned his attention to the monitor before him. "The email that came with the video was apparently from SOLOMON headquarters. We're getting a new Hunter."

* * *

Werner Schaden looked up at the approach of two Acheron minions.

"_Na_?" he inquired. One nodded. The other produced a piece of paper. Schaden held out his free hand and the underling scurried forward, handing him the note.

"You're dismissed." Quickly he unfolded the note, scanning the coded lines. "_Nein, _wait." The minions froze. Schaden's ever-present smile widened slightly. "Have the stage dismantled, _schnell_. And get rid of that."

He pointed at Dempster's prone form, blood seeping into the carpet beneath his ruined chest. "Here." Passing his pistol to the nearest minion, he strode from the room, the note's contents playing through his mind.

_Cargo arrived safely. Present received. In the empty nest we may find some eggs._

"_Ach wie nett_," Schaden thought. _How nice._

**

* * *

**

**Some German words and phrases:**

**_Wilkommen, mein Freunden - _Welcome, my friends  
****_Gutes Volk_ - good people  
****_Na?_ - well?  
****_Nein_ - no  
****_Schnell_ - quickly  
****_Ach wie nett_ - how nice**

Yay! This is the new, improved chapter one - version 1.2, you could say. A few things have changed and I can safely say it is a great deal better than before. Thanks, Kate!


	2. Of darkness advancing

_The sun is bleeding its fires upon the mist  
__That huddles in grey heaps coiling and holding back  
__Like cliffs abutting in shadow a dead grey sea  
__Some street-ends thrust forward their stack._

_On the misty waste lands, away from the flushing grey  
__Of the morning, the elms are loftily dimmed, and tall  
__As if moving in air towards us, tall angels   
__Of darkness advancing steadily over us all._

_Ruination_ - D.H Lawrence

**Chapter Two: Of Darkness Advancing**

Amon found himself watching her, dark eyes coming to rest on her slight form as she sat on the couch, knees to her chest, seemingly absorbed in a dog-eared book of verses. They'd been sitting in comfortable silence for most of the morning, both reading, but Amon had discovered that it was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate. He seemed disturbingly aware of her every movement, ears straining for the scrape of turning pages, anticipating the gentle sigh she gave when a poem had pleased her.

In fact, he realized, looking down at his novel, he'd become so engrossed in Robin's movements that he hadn't read a single page in the last hour. He scowled at the open paperback, resting in his lap, the neat rows of characters like accruing threads of destiny strung taut between himself and his young ward sitting across the room.

_No,_ Amon corrected himself._ Destiny implies an absence of choice, a lack of control over what is to come. I chose this life. _He glanced surreptitiously over at the fire witch. _I chose _her.

Which brought him back to his moral quandary of the previous week. The idea that he was…less than amiable had settled in his brain, seeping through the layers of tissue like an insidious poison. It had played upon his thoughts more than he cared to admit. He knew he wasn't a _pleasant_ man, per se, but he liked to think he was a fair and honourable one, and really, actions were what counted with one's character. Weren't they? In the end, no one cares how well you couch things in nice words and pretty phrases. They only care about what you _do._

There was little to no need for soft words and gentle assurances. Kindness was a luxury he couldn't afford.

_But others deserve._

The sly thought took him unawares. He didn't consider himself unkind. Brisk, efficient and certainly not one to waste words, but not a complete monster. He set out to get a job done and did so to the best of his abilities. He worked hard, maintained a professional manner at all times, and managed to keep his own emotions and weaknesses away from the workplace.

He was never cruel to anyone undeserving. _Or was he?_ Amon recalled, with some shame, how he had treated Robin when she first arrived. Like she was …small and insignificant, a nonentity to him. From the outset he had wanted her to see her own inadequacies and know that it wasn't a partnership, no matter what was expected. It was an unequal pairing, in which the skills and experience of one completely outclassed the other.

_And which one was that again?_

Robin…she was a mystery. She was the Eve of Witches, in addition to possessing the Arcanum of the Craft. Destined – that word again – to be the strongest Witch the world would ever see. Yet all that power simmered beneath the pale skin of a quiet child who slept naked, sighed at poetry, and downed espressos like there was no tomorrow.

She was a mystery. But he understood her. As much as she consistently surprised him, he could usually determine her motivations. It was all rather simple, really. She was good. She was kind. She was purity, personified. She was unselfish, and good-natured, and sympathetic to a fault. And if he could figure her out, anyone could.

Amon could lie all he wanted, really. There was no one to lie to. When he only had to convince himself, it was a fairly easy job. He performed a dual service – he protected the world, from Robin; and Robin, from the world. He'd sworn to subdue her should she become a danger, and taken this personal crusade upon himself, holy paladin to her virginal saint. He was saving her, certainly; but in the process, he sought to save himself. To find redemption by virtue of proximity. In her goodness, and kindness, her _humanity_, perhaps he could attain his own.

His eyes refocused. The book had slipped somewhat, ready to fall from his lap. He snapped it shut, eliciting a startled gasp from his silent companion.

Abruptly he stood. "Robin." She was looking at him, eyes wide. "Let's go for a walk." He stalked out the room, not waiting to see her response, knowing she would follow him.

_I am a bastard._

* * *

They made their way through the park, Robin unwilling to ask Amon about his sudden urge for fresh air. It was a rare occasion indeed that _he_ initiated any outdoor expedition, and she had no intention of spoiling the moment. The day was warm – they all had been, lately – so they had left their coats at home, Robin savoring the strange freedom of being without the oppressive extra layer. Her skirts fluttered about her heels in the playful breeze and she found herself smiling. It was just so good to be out!

Her smile faltered as she turned to look at the man beside her. Amon had…changed. Never a particularly garrulous man, over the past few days he'd become increasingly withdrawn, almost introspective, usually with a bleak look splashed across his features. She's noticed him watching her, when he thought she couldn't see, and the bitterness she's glimpsed in his dark eyes had twisted something deep inside. _Does he regret?_

The smile fell from her face altogether. She couldn't blame him, if he did. What could she expect? He'd essentially forfeited his life for her own, traded in his previous existence for their current half-life, sacrificing his apartment, his car, and his well paid job to play nursemaid to a fifteen year old.

If she was unhappy with being cooped up all the time, did he chafe at the bonds they had to each other? Did he mourn for the life he had lost, the life he had given up to watch over her?

Amon seemed to be an innately solitary person. He isolated himself with his appearance (dark and foreboding), manner (abrupt) and attitude (often sullen). Robin knew he thought he preferred it that way. But it was her rather limited experience that people who presented an unpleasant front to the world were either a) naturally unpleasant or, b) possessed of a complete inability to build and maintain relationships with others. It was difficult for them to make overtures of friendship, and so they chose not to, telling themselves they were better off without, that they didn't want anyone else. They kept people at arm's length, _willing_ them to go away, to leave them to their own darkness.

He wasn't naturally unpleasant, she could tell. Habitually, purposefully – yes, but naturally, no. She didn't know why he acted as he did, but she knew that somewhere, deep inside, there was a good reason. There always was. Whenever Amon came to a decision, she knew it had been inspected and evaluated from every angle, that all the possibilities and eventualities had been mapped out in his mind. He did nothing lightly, a trait that gave his every action weight and meaning.

Robin liked his company; if she were honest, she had to admit she needed it. It had been like that since the beginning, seeking his approval, wanting to know he cared for her, in any sense of the word. They'd gotten off to such a shaky start – at times, she thought he hated her – but in the days before Factory's collapse they had worked together like never before, perfectly attuned to one another, instinctively knowing what had to be done. Since they'd gone into hiding, their forced closeness had inspired a kind of unspoken understanding between them, and while she didn't really ever know what he was feeling – who could? – generally she could determine his moods. But what had brought on this latest simmering acrimony?

She came back to her surroundings. They'd been strolling, quite without intent, in laps around the park. It was mid afternoon and most of their fellow park-goers had dispersed for the time being, presumably to have lunch. They were on a small bridge, traversing the chuckling creek, delicate tree branches stretching overhead, casting filigree shadows upon their already dark figures. Amon had stopped, for some reason, leaning on the rail, unreadable profile turned out over the water. She stood next to him, looking up into his striking face, half hidden behind a fall of dark hair, taking in the hard eyes and tightly pressed lips. Robin wondered what had made him this way, what could have possibly driven him to take all the problems in the world upon his broad, rounded shoulders. She resolved to find out, one question at a time. However badly he had treated her, in the beginning, she had to admit he'd always taken the time to consider her questions, whether he answered them or not.

"Amon," she began, a trifle hesitantly. He gave no outward indication he had heard her gentle query, but she knew he was listening. "Do you regret your decision?"

It was a deceptive question, referring to not one decision but many. All those opportunities he'd had to leave her, betray her, kill her. Yet he had stayed. He'd given up everything for her and she could not, for the life of her, remember having given him anything in return. So she watched him, and she waited, and she held her breath, torn between wanting to know and the terror of finding out.

He considered her question for a long time. Robin could almost feel him drawing up pros and cons lists, sorting facts, evaluating his life before she'd come into it, and juxtaposing it against the existence he led now. After what seemed to be an eternity, his eyes slid to her face, his expression uneasy.

"I do not," he answered finally. Their eyes met and suddenly Robin found it hard to breathe. The air seemed to stick in her chest, right about level with her heart, and her ribs seemed too big for her torso. She felt herself flush, slowly, the heat traveling up her neck and spreading across her face in a leisurely manner. Embarrassed, yet defiant, she held his gaze, watching in fascination as his eyes appeared to change, deepening, and darkening until they seemed entirely black. She was unable to move, like a deer in headlights, rendered immobile by something akin to panic as Amon pushed away from the railing and brought himself a step closer, near enough for her to feel the warmth of his body through her thick skirts. They stayed like that, frozen in time, shadow eyes boring into emerald ones, the world fading around them as she felt with a kind of thrilling certainty that although he hadn't moved any closer, he would. Then they would be closer than ever before, including that time he'd slipped Nagira's address into her hair as they fled the attack on Raven's flat -

When an unexpected weight barreled into the back of her knees, pushing Robin into Amon's chest and eliciting a surprised, "Oomph!" from the taciturn Hunter. She whirled, somewhat shocked and a little relieved, to find a small boy gaping up at Amon, awe and fear mingled on the young face.

"Shinji!" The child jumped at the sound of his name and ran off in the direction of a tall woman, who eyed Amon suspiciously before moving hurriedly away.

Robin felt Amon exhale and knew he was looking at her again, but the awful blush was burning her cheeks and she felt nervous and confused. After a moment she heard him turn.

"Come," he said. Obediently, she followed.

* * *

Kosaka Shintarou shifted irritably in his chair. His fingers tapped the armrest before making their way to his face and smoothing his moustache in a nervous gesture. He could feel the sweat beading on his crown and wished, for the umpteenth time, that the air conditioning worked.

"Hattori!" he bellowed, feeling somewhat isolated in the den of authority. Zaizen's office - _no, _my _office_, he corrected himself - seemed almost worlds away from the rest of the STN-J team members. Hurried footsteps made their way down the hall, and seconds later his aide poked his long face around the door.

"Yes, sir?" he queried, coming fully into the room. As per usual, he was juggling an assortment of files, folders and loose papers.

"Could you please make me a pot of tea?" Kosaka asked wearily, rubbing his forehead.

Hattori nodded, the movement nearly dislodging one of the folders balanced precariously in his grasp. "Of course, sir." As he went to leave the phone on Kosaka's desk began to ring.

"Oh, and there's a phone call for you on line one, sir," he called over his shoulder, maneuvering out the doorway with practiced ease.

Kosaka stomped over to the desk, looking at the phone blankly for a couple of seconds. He wasn't used to all of _this_, even after six months, and he was beginning to fear he never would get accustomed to it. He had always seen himself as subordinate material, the back up man, the second gun. _Gun_? Hell, he didn't even know how to use one. A paper-pusher such as himself wasn't fit to lead an organization like the STN-J. It wasn't so much that he lacked experience – his years with the police had hardened him, somewhat – but more that he didn't have the right attitude for the job. He didn't inspire confidence in his team members; didn't make them want to get out there, in the face of danger, and give everything they had for the merest _chance_ of some sign of approval or encouragement. Zaizen had never motivated the team that way, Kosaka knew. In fact, only one man ever had.

Kosaka's predecessor hadn't really been a good leader. He had sat in his chair, smoked his cigars, and schemed away their lives without anyone noticing. Why? Because they hadn't cared. He had removed himself from their day-to-day operations to such an extent that the STN-J members were _surprised_ to find him in the briefing room. They were unaccustomed to his presence. Zaizen had become a ghost of a leader, a distant threat in that faraway office, a man who pulled the strings of puppets that were never really his. The STN-J crew – no, the STN-J _family_ – had silently pledged their loyalty to someone they had all looked up to.

Amon. It all came back to Amon. The dour Hunter had inspired trust and a kind of reverence, in spite of himself. The team might have questioned his motives, but they never doubted his judgment.

Kosaka wished he could have gotten to know the younger man better. He could have learnt a few things from him.

But thoughts of Amon led to thoughts of Robin and he didn't want to succumb to bitterness again at the tragic events that had cost them two promising young team members. _Team members? The oldest and the youngest. The leader and the heart._

The phone was still ringing.

He snatched it up. "Yes?" he barked. At the cool tones of the voice on the other end, he felt himself pale. _It can't be_…

"Er, yes, no. Of course. I am very – yes. Right. I understand. I'll be there as soon as – I see. Er, do you know what I – yes, of course." The line clicked and the dial tone hummed against his ear.

Kosaka let the receiver fall gently back into its cradle before bracing his short form against the desk. It didn't matter how hard he tried, there was always someone more confident, more assertive, more _suited_ to leadership than he could ever be. He closed his eyes in a kind of relief, imagining the sensation of freedom he would get by handing the reins over to someone else. He'd still be official leader, of course, but the rest would be up to _him_. The man on the phone. The man he was about to collect from the airport. The man who had reminded him of –

Angry now at the connections his exhausted mind had made, he rummaged in a drawer for his car keys, and then set off down the hall.

"Er, sir?" Hattori met him in the working room, a tray of tea at the ready. The rest of the team were in there as well, lounging at their workstations, not even attempting to look busy.

_Well, _that's _about to change. _Kosaka smiled - a grim, almost intimidating baring of his teeth. Sakaki straightened a little at the sight of it, and Doujima's face registered mild interest.

"You look happy, Chief," she said, tilting her head, obviously unable to work out his sudden mood. "I don't understand. I haven't done anything you could chew me out over lately, so how does that work?"

"Doujima," he returned, still smiling, "one of these days you will realize that the world does not revolve around you." With that, he straightened his shoulders. Nearly giddy with the thought of relinquishing command, he tossed some final words over his shoulder as he entered the elevator.

"I'm just off to the airport. I'm picking up the new Hunter." The elevator doors shut quietly as the room exploded into activity. Kosaka allowed his smile to turn smug.

-

He didn't feel so smug now, Kosaka reflected, driving back to the office. The silence between the car's two occupants was like a living thing, stretching out and filling up all the space until he, at least, felt smothered by it.

Allowing his eyes to slide to the side, Kosaka studied his companion. _The resemblance is…uncanny_, he thought, still unnerved by the new Hunter's appearance. When he had first caught sight of him, waiting in the arrivals lounge, he had thought –

A car hurtled past, horn blaring. Deep in contemplation, Kosaka had let the vehicle follow the natural slope of the road and they'd slipped into the other lane. Embarrassed, he returned his attention to the asphalt.

"Perhaps you should watch the road." The tone was amused, and slightly sardonic. It was also frighteningly familiar. Kosaka felt it would have been bearable if it had just been the voice, but coupled with the new Hunter's looks and manner of dress – well. He wondered how the rest of the team would take this new complication. _And just when the wound was beginning to heal, too._

* * *

Michael Lee couldn't concentrate.

He was ostensibly investigating the reports of a new Witch - Craft unknown - but he was incapable of focusing. Everyone was being too noisy, for one thing. Haruto and Doujima were animatedly discussing the new Hunter; while Hattori - at a loose end in the absence of Kosaka - was pestering Karasuma about some new gun or the like. Michael's mind kept skipping back to the Chief's announcement, and from there, it was beyond control.

A new Hunter. He'd heard that before.

It was just like last time. Out of the blue they'd been issued with a replacement. He couldn't deny that the team needed the extra help but he also couldn't say that they appreciated this unexpected token of SOLOMON's regard. They were a close-knit group, the STN-J. He knew it could be difficult adjusting.

His fingers ceased their typing. How cold they'd been to the previous replacement. They'd acted, at various times, like she was a nuisance, a simpleton, a small child prone to getting underfoot. And she'd taken it all without complaint, saving their asses more times than he could remember. He recalled her hesitant overture of friendship.

_He'd been watching the moon. It was strange. He didn't miss the day so much – he'd never been a particularly active boy, and besides, his pale skin burned easily – but the loss of his evenings was one he truly mourned._

_"Michael?" _

_Turning, he saw her. Robin stood behind him, ethereal in the soft moonlight. Her face was shadowed, but her eyes had seemed to glow, pleading in the dim radiance. She proffered a small package._

_"I've brought donuts." She'd laid them on his desk and gone off to make them both coffee. The first time, he'd been too surprised to react. The second time he'd tried her name upon his lips and it had felt like home._

Michael had learnt, in the course of his confinement, to watch people. To conduct character studies. There wasn't an enormous selection to work from, but he'd learnt a great deal about the group. Without the option of much human contact, or peer interaction, he had no choice but to make himself familiar with every nuance and idiosyncrasy his teammates displayed. It had provided him with entertainment in an arguably empty life.

And so it was that he'd seen Robin's inexplicable crush on the person who had treated her most badly. He'd seen it before anyone else – before perceptive Karasuma and super-spy Doujima, and it was quite possible he had known before Robin herself. He couldn't speak for Amon – the cool Hunter had never given any indication he'd known of her feelings. But Robin – Michael was prepared to wager that she herself didn't understand the depth of her emotions concerning Amon. He had certainly never been able to comprehend it.

He sighed. What did he know about attraction? The last two and a half years had been spent chained to the office. With a null and void social life he could hardly consider himself the relationship expert. It was most likely his own jealousy talking, anyway. Those burning looks Robin had directed at Amon had been difficult to watch, especially when he'd been coming to terms with his own impotent, unrequited affections. He had eventually come to accept that Robin would never feel for him what he felt for her. The knowledge, however, didn't make it hurt any less. Shaking his head ruefully, Michael resumed typing.

He'd immersed himself so fully into his work that he'd nearly forgotten Kosaka's errand until the elevator doors opened some time later. The Chief's officious voice reached the office before he and his guest did, which gave the rest of the staff a frantic moment to arrange themselves in relaxed poses that still provided ideal viewing of this unknown entity. Michael was amused to find even Karasuma affected by the anticipatory mood and watched her out of the corner of his eye as she perched negligently on the desk beside him, smoothing down her skirt and worrying the buttons on her jacket.

He was still looking at his monitor when Kosaka bumbled into the room, and was about to face him when Karasuma's shocked gasp sounded next to his ear. The nervous activity of the room had become a tomb-like silence. Michael was almost frightened to turn around, but he did so anyway. He felt the sharp intake of his breath, the quiet hiss, as if it were distant from his body. He felt his eyes widen as they took in the tall, dark-clad man slouching next to the Chief. He felt hope bloom in his heart for a tiny desperate second before it fizzled into the familiar hollow emptiness.

This, then, was the Hunter SOLOMON had sent to taunt them.

They were all thinking the same thing. They had to be. He couldn't have been the only one to have done a double-take. The man alongside Kosaka looked _just like Amon._

Of course, on second inspection there were differences. He was slimmer, for one. Probably younger. His hair seemed a shade lighter, a touch shorter. But the way he held himself, the way his eyes skimmed dispassionately over the assembled team –

All Amon.

Michael shook himself. The Chief was in the middle of introductions, steering the new Hunter around the desks. In a moment they'd reach his desk and he didn't know what to do or say, how to act around this man he'd never met but felt like he knew already. And Amon, led to Robin, which stirred those restless butterflies in the pit of his stomach and he didn't need confusion at a time like this -

Then, they were there. Kosaka smiled that strange, brittle smile from earlier on and leant forward confidentially. "Michael, this is Jabez. Jabez, this is Michael, our resident computer expert."

The Hunter nodded, grim-faced. "Michael." _Shit, they even sound the same!_ Against his better wishes, fighting an inner voice he didn't know he had, Michael looked up. He swallowed. Incongruous in that pale face belonging to another man from another time, were a pair of equally familiar green eyes.

_Robin's eyes._

* * *

**I hate to come across badly, but might I just add that I'm a review whore? I love to hear people's opinion of my work - good OR bad. Please give me some feedback, if you have the time, and I welcome constructive criticism. I will never improve if no one tells me how. Thank you for reading!**


	3. Evade the earth

_Terrible is the price   
Of beginning anew, of birth;   
For Death has loaded dice.  
  
Men hurry and hide like mice;   
But they cannot evade the Earth,   
And Life, Death's fancy price._  
  
From _The Price_ by John Davidson  
  
**Chapter Three: Evade the Earth**  
  
Nagira Syunji was dreaming.  
  
It wasn't one of _those_ dreams. There were no buxom handmaidens attentive to his every desire; no leather clad mistresses eyeing him with exhilarating disapproval. Regretfully, he'd been having fewer dreams like that, lately.  
  
No. It was one of the _other_ dreams. And this one starred two very familiar actors.  
  
They were alive, in his dream. His dream self didn't question it. They were there, they were alive and that was all that mattered.  
  
_Robin was sitting on a bed, her arms clasped around her legs, head resting on her knees. She was staring at the wall, waiting, perhaps. Suddenly, she started and jumped up, padding out the door and into a small hallway.  
  
Nagira's view of the dream changed. He was in a kitchen. Robin came in with some bags - Amon right behind her. They spoke for a moment, lips moving soundlessly, until Robin stilled, then smiled.  
  
And then, in that strange way dreams have, they were somewhere else. They were leaving a bench near a teppanyaki stand. Nagira recognized the fountain behind them and wondered at his brother's audacity._ So, they were still in Tokyo_. They were walking down a street, then past an alley, when a man he didn't know stepped from the shadows. The picture skipped, like a bad film, showing him snatches of what was to come - Robin lying on the ground; the man laughing; and most frightening of all, Amon's face, cold with a killing fury. He took a step forward and -  
  
It was then that the dream disintegrated into an assortment of images, flashing across his bewildered mind. A worn book of poetry; a faded ribbon; the broken dial of an old television; a rusting birdcage with the door missing; a faded photograph of three men; the shattered lens of a pair of glasses; and finally, an ugly grey building.  
_  
Nagira woke up. His heart was pounding and he'd been thrashing about in bed, judging by the state of his sheets and comforter.  
  
"Shit," he muttered. Still groggy, he rolled over and sat up, sweat cooling on his bare chest as he reached for a cigarette. Lighting it, he leaned on the headboard, watching the smoke drift up to the ceiling, going over the dream in his mind. He was missing something, he knew, something important from those last few flashes at the end.  
  
The photo, the glasses - ah, he had it. He took a long drag on his cigarette and smiled in the darkness. His brother was a keen one, to be sure - but he was pretty observant, himself. His smile widened at the thought of Mika's reaction to his announcement he'd be visiting friends today.  
  
_...and finally, an ugly grey building...with a street sign at the edge of his vision._

* * *

There wasn't much for them to do in their tiny apartment. Furtive shopping excursions - usually only made by him - had yielded books and art supplies; primarily for Robin's entertainment. He had his laptop as well as a few other items he'd salvaged from the two heart-pounding trips back to his apartment, before he'd asked Robin to do the honors. They'd left as silently as they'd come, the flames warming their backs as the sirens drew steadily closer.  
  
There was no way they would manage to get Robin's suitcase from Nagira's without alerting his irritatingly perceptive brother to their existence, so shopping it was. It had proven impossible to find anything that even remotely resembled her favored attire anywhere in Tokyo, so she'd had to settle for a variety of long, dark skirts and blouses. Standing at the counter, paying for their purchases, he'd given in to curiosity.  
  
"How do you run?" he asked, accepting his change. She took half the bags, considering.  
  
"I don't have to, most of the time." No, quite right. Amon had come to learn that flames could travel a fair distance. He'd really meant in pursuing a Witch.  
  
"Although," she continued, "I always make sure the skirts are big enough here-" she pulled at the cloth near her knee with her free hand, "so that I can, if need be."  
  
He nodded, as if to signify the end of the conversation. But he took note of sizes and on his next unaccompanied outing, invested in a pair of jeans. One could never know.  
  
So, there wasn't much to do. Amon was particularly edgy, unaccustomed to idle hours with no direction, no motivation apart from the overriding urge to live. They read. They talked. They learned a lot about each other. Each day brought them closer together until one day he realized they worked in synchrony; two parts of a whole, quite possibly inseparable. He didn't want to test the theory.  
  
They watched television. Amon had never had much use for the idiot box before, it existed only to provide background noise, news or the occasional weather report. Now, in their caged existence, it was like an old friend come to join the party, boosting their pairing up to a trio. He still couldn't stomach most programs, but they were becoming quite the little general knowledge aficionados. He was certain they'd seen every quiz show known to man.  
  
That was their evening ritual - watching game shows, sitting beside each other on the worn sofa. In attempting to answer before the contestants they were fairly evenly matched. Robin was superior in arts and literature, but he was well versed in geography and current affairs. They were usually equal in history. He had a broader reach but she had by far the more agile mind.  
  
And sometimes, it was hard to concentrate.  
  
Robin got surprisingly excited over this battle of skills. She became agitated in "Who am I?" questions when she couldn't think of the answer; and was often aghast at the time it took for befuddled contestants to stammer out a response.  
  
"But Amon, it's so obviously ----," she'd say, unconsciously clasping his arm, wriggling about on the couch cushions in her distress. "It was stated quite plainly in ----."  
  
"Yes," he'd reply noncommittally, forcing himself to focus on the television. _Math_, he thought. _Simple mathematics. The hypotenuse of a triangle is the longest side. One meter equals 100 centimeters. What is the square root of 225? Fifteen. Fifteen. Robin is fifteen. Shit.  
_  
Hard to concentrate, indeed.  
  
-  
  
Amon's head hurt. It wasn't the usual aching jumble of apprehension and held back emotion, nor was it the gnawing throb of "will-they-find-us" or "what-will-they-do-to-us?". Instead, it was a tooth-jarring buzz, constantly at the edges of his perception. It was also very annoying.  
  
Which explained why he was lying facedown on the couch when Robin came out to start dinner. He heard the soft whoosh of her door opening, then her steady tread tracing the familiar path to the living room. He would have smiled at how even her feet sounded surprised when she paused upon seeing him "C he would have, but his head hurt too much.  
  
"Amon?" 

He grunted. She moved - one, two, three steps - then knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand upon his back. "Are you alright?"  
  
He rolled to one side and rested his cheek on his forearm. Eyes closed, he replied, "My head hurts." The comforting hand moved from his back to his temple, smoothing over the skin there, and he suppressed a ridiculous urge to lean into her touch.  
  
"Do you need paracetamol tablets?" He shook his head and sat up, slowly. It wasn't a _headache_, per se, it just...hurt. Blinking languidly he took in Robin's worried face before allowing his gaze to roam the room. _Now, if I could only get out of here..._  
  
_And why not?_ I'd wager being cooped up has something to do with this awful feeling. "Robin." She watched him, waiting. "I think we should eat out tonight." Confusion warred with excitement on her expressive face at the prospect of a rare foray into the outside world. She got to her feet.  
  
"I'll get my coat."

* * *

The wing fluttered weakly - once, twice - before stilling as the harsh fumes took effect. Werner Schaden held his breath while he pinned the delicate appendage, then moved on to its mate. Without taking his eyes off the helpless creature, he reached for another pin and casually impaled the tiny torso.  
  
He leant back, surveying his work. No - something was not right. He frowned for a moment, glancing about to see what he'd missed, when his eyes fell upon a little piece of paper. "Ah, _klar_!" he said, smiling to himself, taking the small card and arranging it under the crucified insect.  
  
"_Parnassius mnemosyne_ - Clouded Apollo," he read aloud. Gently, almost tenderly, he picked up the case and carried it over to the far wall of his study, fixing it to the hook already prepared upon the plaster. He stepped back to admire the view.  
  
Frame upon frame of butterflies lined the wall, their immobile forms and neat labels taking up most of the space. There were more, of course, curiosity cabinets full of them, but these were his favorites - the crowd pleasers, one could say. From below his knee to above his head, the wall was taken up by boxes of Lepidoptera, their preserved forms forever trapped between glass and wax. In fact, the entire wall was now full, save for one single rectangle of free plaster in the centre of his collection.  
  
Schaden straightened. His bodyguard had just entered the room. "Otis," Schaden said, eyes still fixed on that empty spot amidst the sea of cases, "did I ever tell you what I am saving that space on my wall for?" He turned slowly, to find the large man thinking. It looked painful.  
  
"I...do not think you have had." Schaden smiled. Otis was tall, Scandinavian, and thick as a brick. The perfect henchman, really. Good minions were so hard to come across these days.  
  
"_Nein_? Ah, but it is such a good story! Let me give you the short version. "This-" he indicated the gap "is being saved for the greatest desire of myself. The love of my life, perhaps." He watched the blonde giant carefully; he seemed to be following the tale so far.  
  
"When I was very little my parents had no time for me. They worked a great deal and so I was left alone much of the time. One holidays _meine Grossmutter_, she took me in at her country home and let me have the run of the manor. After a couple of days I discovered the attic, and the treasures it held. Amidst this collection I found a thin wooden case, perhaps this big." Schaden gestured, holding his hands about a foot apart.  
  
"A curious child, I opened it. And inside was the largest butterfly I had ever seen! At first, I thought it was perhaps a strange bird, but it had a little card - _Ornithoptera alexandrae_ - Queen Alexandra's Birdwing. That, Otis, is the rarest of all the butterflies in the world, at this time. Many species become extinct, every day, but in the far reaches of Papua New Guinea there are still some of that particular breed to be found. I do not know how long I stared at the beautiful creature, but I still remember every single tracing on its body, every dust mote upon its wings."  
  
"We went for a walk, that afternoon, _meine Grossmutter_ and myself, and on our way back we saw smoke. The house was in flames. They could never tell us how it started but everything was destroyed. That beautiful, majestic creature was no more." Schaden returned from his reverie. His bodyguard was looking at him, slack jawed, but he couldn't tell if Otis had been caught up in the story or was simply maintaining his usual appearance.  
  
"I changed, that day, Otis. Three things happened to me at that time. Firstly, I fell in love with collecting these exquisite beings, hoping that one day; I would have the pleasure of capturing and pinning my very own Queen Alexandra's Birdwing. Secondly, I swore that should I ever have children, I would be a good father to them, and not neglect them, ever. I loved _meine Grossmutter_, God rest her soul, but I longed for my parents to spend more time with me. Finally, Otis, I _feared_. Nothing had frightened me, truly, before that day, but coming back to find the house in flames - well. It instilled in me a deep and abiding hatred of fire."  
  
He was silent for a moment longer, before smiling widely at his henchman. "But surely you did not come in here to listen to my ravings! Why did you seek me out?"  
  
Otis nodded, and apparently unconsciously, straightened under the benevolent eye of his employer. "A message is arrived for you, sir." He pulled a note from the pocket of his dark suit, handed it over, then retreated to his lurking post out the study door. Schaden watched him go, then opened the envelope.  
  
_Windless sails. Some resistance. The hidden phoenix shall arise from the ashes._  
  
"_Viel Gluck_," he thought, methodically shredding the paper, letting the strips litter the floor unheeded. "Let us see how the little bird fares."

* * *

Miho didn't like him. She was reasonably certain none of the other team members liked him, either. She didn't know why she felt this way about him - she couldn't put her finger on it. But there was something about him, something about this Jabez -  
  
He frightened her.  
  
Oh, he'd done nothing untoward. He'd been with the STN-J for nearly a fortnight and he'd settled in as best one could, in that place. He'd even gone on a hunt the night after he arrived.  
  
_"I see him, Michael," she said into her earpiece, readying her gun, struck by that same sense of weightiness she got every time she pulled out her regular old pistol. Lead, it appeared, was heavier than Orbo. She was about to run after the Witch when a strong arm had clapped down upon her shoulder. Stifling an exclamation, she looked up into the cold eyes of the new Hunter.  
_  
Miho hated his eyes. They were twin reminders of the girl who'd touched them all so deeply, then been torn from them in a cruel wrench of fate. It didn't help that the rest of Jabez just screamed _Amon_!  
  
And she couldn't figure him out. This replacement was a tough one. He didn't show his emotions at all, and they still didn't know what, if any, Craft he possessed. In fact, they'd barely exchanged words in the entire time he'd been there.  
  
Her Craft was failing. She'd tried to read him that very first time, when the Chief had brought him to the office. Nothing. Not even a stray reaction to his lunch that day. She'd held off for another week, then tried again. Nothing.  
  
Just remembering that silence - that complete and utter lack of feeling - made her panic. She could feel that familiar other that was her Craft slipping away from her. As much as she'd resented it when she was younger, as much as she'd feared it more recently, she couldn't bear to think of what the loss of it would do to her. For if she didn't have her Craft, what did she have?  
  
_"Karasuma." The voice. So like Amon's. It worked as Amon's would have, comforting and solid, pulling her from her reverie. She'd been staring into his eyes. He reached over and plucked her gun from suddenly nerveless fingers.  
  
"We will not be killing the Witch," Jabez told her, pocketing the weapon and subsequently withdrawing a gun of his own. Instead of regular bullets like hers held, this one was stocked with tranquilizer slugs, guaranteed to knock out any living person, human or Witch, in a matter of seconds.  
  
She knew this because he'd explained the new methods to them the day he'd arrived. She knew, and still she had reached for her own gun. She didn't know why.  
  
The Witch was still in her sights, skulking in the alley before them. Jabez glided forward, soundless in the shadows - then his gun clicked, cocking. Two pfft noises and the Witch crumpled.  
  
"We have him, Michael." Miho found her voice and followed the other Hunter over to their quarry.  
  
"Have you inserted the chip yet?" Michael's voice sounded in her ear, causing her to jump. I'm edgy, she thought.  
  
"No. He- we're about to."  
  
"Okay." The hacker sounded distracted. "Call me when its done." Her earpiece fizzled and she knew Michael had moved on to other matters.  
  
When she caught up to Jabez she found him busy with the shiny apparatus that seemingly signified the future of Witch hunting. It reminded Miho of a garlic press. It had the same squeeze mechanism, but the top was modified, somehow. Jabez tore open the plastic wrapper that housed the small chip and inserted it into the holding clip. He wiped over the unconscious Witch's neck with an alcohol swab, then pressed the blade against the skin and squeezed.  
  
It was a quick and no doubt painless maneuver that nevertheless caused Miho to wince. It was a two part process. First the bladed section of the "squeezer" cut a thin, precise line in the Witch's skin. The blade remained under the dermal layer while the second part took place. The chip was thrust under the skin, then the machine was removed and the skin flap held down. Jabez rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a small bottle. Withdrawing what looked like a nail polish brush, he carefully spread some over the tiny cut. He recapped the bottle, gathered his things, and stood up, surveying the Witch's prone form impassively.  
  
"Michael." His voice cut through the silence. "The chip is in place."  
  
"Right." Miho heard the reply in her own headset. "Now let me just - aha! It's in the database. Okay- heart rate normal. Craft use at zero. Great! All the info is in the system."  
  
Disturbed, Miho turned and left the alley, wanting nothing more than a nice warm bath. She left Jabez crouching once more over the drugged Witch, turning the spent tranquilizers over in his gloved hand._

-

She was just pulling out of the parking lot at Raven's Flat when her communicator sounded. Keeping one eye on the traffic she reached over and connected.  
  
"Yes?"

Michael's voice came over the line. "Remember that Witch you tagged on your first Hunt with Jabez?"  
  
How could she forget? "Yes, of course. What is it, Michael?"  
  
"He's on the move. And it looks like he's got a partner." Despite herself, Miho was curious.  
  
"What was the Witch's power?" She could hear tapping.  
  
"Ah, an unusual one, to be sure. Yori Nanashi's only ability is to completely shield himself. He can render himself invisible and becomes impervious to detection by Craft. Gee, guess we just got him at a bad moment."  
  
"He was completely visible. Yet it seems unlikely we would have caught him off guard...what of his partner?"  
  
"No information on him. I only found out by going through the police files."

She sighed, and spotting a break in the line of cars, slipped out onto the road. Steering with one hand, she allowed herself a quick glance down at the communicator. "Do you have Yori's location, Michael?"  
  
"Yeah -"  
  
"I'm on my way."

* * *

It was dusk when they left the apartment. Amon was not overly hungry - even though ostensibly they'd gone out for a meal - so they walked down side streets, taking in the shops that were still open. The buzzing in his head had numbed that part that made him innately watchful and suspicious, so he was less aware than he usually was. Which should have made him more alert.  
  
As it was, he felt almost relaxed, lingering over displays with Robin. Sure, he'd feel a whole lot better without the static in his head, but other than that, Amon was oddly peaceful in this domestic setting. Amon, Robin, shopping. It didn't clang, as he'd thought it might.  
  
He hadn't been paying much attention to where they were going, and he was somewhat surprised to find they'd wandered into a music store. Robin was in the aisle next to him, lovingly stroking a violin.  
  
Amon started. _Lucky violin_. He scowled and walked over to her, nodding at the instrument. "I was unaware you played." He knew she could play the organ, but had assumed that was the extent of her musical abilities.  
  
She nodded. "I learnt from when I was very young. I haven't played for a while though." Her hand stilled on the violin and he found himself staring at the pale skin, stark against the warm gloss of the wood, then he was stepping forward of his own volition, closing the gap between them -  
  
"Can I help you?" Amon's eyes narrowed. _I hate shop assistants.  
_  
"Yes," he said, keeping the fury from his voice with great effort, "you can. I'd like to purchase this instrument."  
  
Robin's mouth fell open in a graceless 'o' of astonishment. He felt perversely satisfied for provoking such a reaction. "Amon, you can't -"  
  
He silenced her with a wave of his hand, dismissing her protests. The clerk dimpled.  
  
"What a lovely uncle you have," she said to Robin, leading her to the counter.  
  
_I_ really _hate shop assistants_. 

-

Before Amon knew it, night had fallen. They discussed dinner and Robin expressed a desire to have teppanyaki, a style of cooking she'd become rather taken with. He'd inwardly balked at the idea of being trapped in a restaurant, but as usual, as if sensing his discomfort, she'd softly suggested a safe alternative.  
  
So they bought their food from a small stand in the park, and eaten it on a bench next to a fountain. The rhythmic splashing soothed his buzzing head, and he was feeling quite calm by the time he scraped the last piece of fish from his plastic container. Robin had already finished hers and was watching the people around them - couples walking close together; friends joking and laughing; parents lovingly scolding their children. She hugged the violin case to her thin chest, gazing wistfully out at these paragons of normalcy.  
  
"Amon?" she asked, jolting him from his stupor. He'd been staring at her. Again. He hurriedly schooled his face into an expression of disinterest.  
  
"Yes?" he replied, looking out into the distance, as if scanning for possible threats.  
  
"Will life always be like this?"  
  
He'd wondered that as well. They'd spoken of what they should do after fleeing Factory, and had come to the conclusion that waiting a year to leave the country was probably the best option. Amon wasn't a frivolous man - he'd saved the majority of his STN-J earnings. He was also something of a shrewd investor - a skill Nagira, of all people, had helped him cultivate - so they were pretty much guaranteed enough money to last them the 12 months of laying low. When he'd worked out the logistics of going into hiding, however, he'd neglected to consider just how boring captivity could get.  
  
Although, if he had to admit it, there was no one else he would have even contemplated sharing forced confinement with. Robin was, although quiet, an excellent conversationalist, able to discuss many varied topics. She was tidy, spending part of each day cleaning their living quarters. She could even cook.  
  
He struggled to find an answer to her question, but the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that he had no idea. "I don't know, Robin," he said, bowing his head, willing himself not to look at her.  
  
He felt her nod, then stand up. "Come, Amon," she said, grasping his hand, and despite his earlier inner protests, his startled eyes flew up to meet her own. She was smiling, a rueful twist of her lips. Amon let her pull him to his feet and they trudged off together, disposing of their rubbish, merging seamlessly with the oblivious swirl of humanity.  
  
-  
  
They walked the usual way home. This part of town was not as well lit as the park area. It seemed almost ominous, even to Amon's malfunctioning senses, fuzzed as they were by the static in his head. He was ignoring the feeling, telling himself he was just paranoid, when a quiet scuffling behind him cleared his head completely.  
  
Amon's mind _trickled_. He was turning, moving his body to see what Robin was doing behind him, but time seemed to be moving against him. Inexplicably, the image of a plum filled his head. The skin of the fruit in his brain tore, and juice dribbled out. _But I'm not a plum_, Amon thought stupidly as he moved through the syrupy air -  
  
to find Robin lying on the ground, bright blood stark on her pale face. Her green eyes - usually so vibrant - were hidden. Incongruously, one white arm was slung over the violin case, protecting his gift even while unconscious. He hoped she was only unconscious.  
  
He could see, out of the corner of his eye, a man standing in the alley, perhaps twenty paces ahead of him. The man was laughing, obviously amused at Robin's expense. But there was another one, there had to be, this man, this _human_ couldn't have attacked her. And then he felt it. The rustle in the air. The warmth nearby. The presence that proved there was someone - _something_ - that he couldn't see and _it had hurt Robin.  
_  
Fury bubbled within, a great soundless scream ripping through his mind. The fuzzy feeling that had haunted him all day dissipated instantly at the sight of Robin, crumpled at his feet. He didn't stop to think that someone with the power to incapacitate the Eve of Witches would make light work of himself - he only knew that he was angry and afraid and now that he'd thought of it he couldn't seem to rid himself of the plum idea. In his mind the skin of the plum was being pulled right off and the flesh and juice were spewing out and he knew with certainty that something was about to happen.  
  
Without warning, the pressure in his head _popped_ and he felt his mind lift from the confines of his skull. Before he knew it the floating, reaching _otherness_ of his mind had locked onto an _othermind_ and then he was falling, falling into a dark space of memories and emotions. They were not his own, and he knew - without knowing - that this was his gift, his curse, his _Craft_. He snapped back to his own mind, stumbling with the force of the recoil.  
  
Amon watched with detached astonishment as he faced the Witch and the friend in the black world of his own creation, trying to come to terms with the duality of his body here and the flesh form he'd left behind in the alley, still slouched next to the silent form of Robin.  
  
_I'm not human.  
  
I'm 'other'.  
  
I'm a Witch._

* * *

**Some German words:**

**_Klar_ - of course   
_Nein_ - no   
_meine Grossmutter_ - my grandmother   
_Viel Gluck_ - good luck**

**A/N Thank you to everyone who took the time to read my story. Much gratitude especially to DarkenedSakura and Manny PenPen, who beta-ed for me. You've helped more than you know. Thanks, I really appreciate it!**

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	4. Lean thy life

_O lean thy life on mine, dear!  
__'Twill shelter thee, 'twill shelter thee.  
__Thou wet a winsome vine, dear,  
__On my young tree, on my young tree:  
__And so, till boughs are leafless,  
__And Song-birds flown, and Song-birds flown,  
__We twine, then lay us, griefless,  
__Together down, together down._

From _O Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear!_ by Gerald Massey

**Chapter Four: Lean Thy Life**

_I'm a Witch._

His heart was thudding. He didn't want to admit it. But he couldn't escape it either. Amon looked around. Emptiness. It was dark, but strangely, he could still see the other two men reasonably clearly. Their features were not defined; it was more like sensing their presences, or looking through thermal binoculars. Ones eyes were tricked. Yet he could feel them and he was fairly certain they were ignorant of his presence. Not that it mattered in this place of shadow.

The trickling ripple of his newly discovered Craft flowed from within his mind to beneath his skin, spreading throughout his body and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Amon was not intimidated easily but this new side of himself frightened him. He'd known it was there, of course, but he'd hoped to keep it dormant forever. He still didn't understand what it could do. But seeing Robin –

Robin. The power surged and crashed within his body like some primeval tidal force. He growled.

For a moment his vision blurred and he saw the alley superimposed over the black expanse of his current surrounds. Then he blinked and the image was gone, although the sensation of duality remained.

The two man figures were scared. Amon could smell it. They spoke to each other in fearful whispers.

"-is failing-"

"-with earth Craft-"

"-could see me?"

"-yet no focus?"

Earth Craft? Was that the Witch's power? He felt a sudden wrench of fear. Closing his eyes, he remembered another time; shadows and light, and the disturbing image of Robin-that-was-not-Robin, a vacant husk with no spirit within. He understood now why she had seemed lifeless, and empty, staring blankly at nothing while the Hunter moved ever closer, his slow steps a shuffling portent of her own downfall. He recalled his hands had been balled into painful fists at his side, but he couldn't interfere. She had to do it on her own.

And she had. Perhaps she was stronger without him.

Pushing that thought aside, he took a step forward. The Craft seemed to build from a trickle to a torrent. Unable to restrain the unfamiliar pressure, Amon opened his eyes and let the power go.

* * *

Miho checked her position on the communicator. Good. Yori wasn't too far off. Dropping the communicator in her lap, she leaned over the steering wheel and took her bearings.

She was in the Old District, but that was the extent of her knowledge. It was a part of Tokyo that Witches, and therefore STN-J, rarely frequented. Street lights placed haphazardly along the pavement cast their dim light upon the dark buildings and narrow roads.

There was no one in sight. This vaguely unsettled Miho – it was just after eight, hardly curfew. To be sure, the neighborhood wasn't exactly savory, but it still gave her that prickly feeling at the back of her neck. She shivered. Then she felt it.

A pulse. A hum. A…_scream?_ It rippled through her mind and seemed to throb through the ground, making the car vibrate on the suddenly unsteady road. She sat glued to her seat, hands gripping the steering wheel as she dealt with this double attack, feeling it both physically and psychically.

A moment – a breath – later, and it was over. Shuddering from the effort of not giving in to the sudden, inexplicable fear that had fleetingly paralyzed her, Miho fumbled with the handle and opened the car door. She braced herself against the hood, catching her breath, then pulling out her gun, set off in the direction the power had come from.

It seemed she was going to have to earn her keep.

* * *

Amon felt it leave his body and travel outwards, like threads or vines, speeding off into the distance while remaining tethered, rooted to something deep inside. He felt it undulate through the ground, racing along with no control, moving through the earth as though it –

The earth. _"…with earth Craft…." _Did the men…mean him?

His overloaded mind tried to make sense of it all. _That can't be right. The earth Craft user who Hunted Robin only had a secondary power that needed to be focused through Ogham circles and runic symbols. And yet, what else can it be? _He'd reacted instinctively, tearing the threat these men posed far away from where they could endanger Robin, but to where? Their bodies appeared unmoved, if the ghostly image of the alley that played across his eyes was any indication, but their minds…

Amon remembered the _othermind_ - the flood of memories, the feeling of self-yet-other - and on impulse tried to reel in some of the power that had bubbled out of him like a glass overflowing. The threads were slippery, and hard to control, but he managed to pull some back under his skin, where it simmered quietly, seeming to stretch his very being within the housing of his flesh. Recalling his martial arts training, he forced himself to breathe deeply, and sank quickly into meditation.

In the comforting hum of his own power – a pleasantly soothing thrum that resonated through his soul – he sensed two small wells. Skating through the shadows of his mind he moved towards them, and dropped down into darkness.

_  
They are bad men. They know that. They like it. Their victims have said it, thought it, screamed it; hatred all too clear in their innocent, pain-filled eyes. The men are amused by the impotent fury of their powerless prey. It excites them. _

_They target girls. Easy prey. So pretty and pure. Naïve in the ways of the world. In need of education. The men enjoy the sensation – so tangible yet so elusive – of life and hope slipping from their victims. Oh, the power they hold over them!_

_They have codenames. 'Tweedledum' and 'Tweedledee'. A shadowy man commands them to find a young female. They are ordered to take her alive but nothing is said of untouched. The payment is good, but they prefer their own choice of reward._

_They take pictures…_

Amon wrenched himself from the sordid pool of memories, images still fresh in his now soiled mind. He felt…dirty after seeing what those men had done. And almost disturbingly, he felt somewhat calm, as well. Calm because he knew what to do, how to repay, in some small way, the countless acts of torture they had committed against innocent young girls. Against girls just like Robin.

He concentrated on the calm feeling, the one that sat next to the shocked revulsion somewhere in his gut. He advanced on the men - the Witch and his human friend, both demons in their own way - and as he got closer, he could feel a small smile playing over his lips. _Good things come to those who wait…_

Reaching the men unaware, he stretched out his arms and placed a hand on each forehead. Concentrating on the debauched imagery that continued to loop in his head, he tore into their minds and planted the seeds of pain. Pain they had caused, fear and terror that had previously aroused them. With skills he didn't know he had; with power he didn't know how to use; he made sure the pain would haunt their minds forever. He sealed them in a prison of their own making and left them there to rot.

Amon opened his eyes and was promptly sick. He emptied his stomach but found he couldn't clear his mind of those revolting images. If they'd gotten Robin…

He snapped his iron control back into place with the finality of a judge's gavel, and sank to the ground, sweat soaking his clothes and beading on skin stretched over taut, shaking muscles. He couldn't believe what had just happened, what he'd just done. How _had_ he done it?

His body shook from the effort of retching. He carefully avoided looking at the fallen bodies of his enemies and crawled over to where Robin was still lying. The blood had dried on her face in a sticky black line, and this close he could see the purple blossom of a bruise on her temple. Hand trembling, he reached out and placed two fingers on her neck.

A pulse. Faint, but there. Amon released a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. He wanted nothing more than to collapse, exhausted, here on the ground next to Robin, and cry until his eyes were dry. He wanted to cry as he'd never wanted to cry again. He wanted to cry like he did on that day long ago –

Groaning, Amon pushed himself to his knees. _One step at a time_. He knelt for a long moment, then using his palms, pushed upright. He swayed, caught himself, and tried to remember how to work his own body.

The world stopped spinning. His muscles screamed. Ignoring the protests of his bones and being, he scooped Robin up in his arms, leaning down painfully to grab girl and violin. He allowed himself the small comfort of pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. Then, without pausing to wonder why that was a comfort, he set off slowly for home.

* * *

Doujima Yurika looked down forlornly at her Blahnik heels and sighed. _You'd think I would have learned by now, _she admonished herself silently. _But no, if it comes down to a choice between style and comfort, I go for style every time. Even if that means sacrificing ease of walking, freedom of movement and the required speed to keep up with my new partner. _

She watched said partner's back, thinking. Doujima was an excellent judge of people – she had to be, in her line of work – and yet she didn't know what to make of this Jabez person. She frowned. Who called their kid 'Jabez', anyway?

Michael's voice came suddenly, annoyingly, in her ear. "The Witch should be a street ahead of you guys." She nodded, then allowing for Michael's inability to see her response, answered verbally.

"Got it."

Jabez stopped, and without turning, motioned Doujima forward. She moved awkwardly to his side, wishing Manolo Blahnik had dismissed his idea to make shoes as just another crazy fantasy, all those years ago.

"He is in the next street over," Jabez said quietly. She felt like rolling her eyes, but was uncharacteristically behaved beside this unknown entity; this new and as yet unidentified force within the ranks of the STN-J. She settled for agreeing, instead.

"Yes. Michael told me, too."

Her sarcasm was apparently lost on the man, as he only nodded. Then, with a speed she'd never seen anyone use before – not even Amon – he slipped out of the alley and was lost in the inky shadows.

If her feet hadn't hurt so much, Doujima would have stamped in frustration. But they did; so she didn't; and sighing, she limped off after the Hunter that, she suspected, was just as dangerous as their unseen quarry.

* * *

Miho followed the fading psychic tremors of the mini-quake. The physical manifestation had dissipated moments after the initial shock, but she could see that here and there the walls had cracked slightly, and the pavement seemed uneven in the aftermath of the vibrations. She gripped her gun more tightly, grateful for the sense of security it afforded her. She didn't have either the 'tagger' or any chips on her – and for that, she was almost defiantly relieved. Strangely, Miho felt it would be better for these 'tagged' Witches to die before SOLOMON got its claws into them.

She wondered if she had become cold. _Maybe the Hunting life has numbed me._ It happened to Kate, after all. Perhaps one day she'd retire, and buy a little farm in the country, somewhere. She could grow roses, and carrots.

Rounding a corner, she stopped short as she encountered a strange barrier. It was…_smooth._ Unnatural. Obviously made by a Witch. She ran her gloved hand lightly over its invisible surface. It wasn't entirely tangible, but her mind baulked at the thought of having to cross it. Impulsively, she looked down. _How odd_. All the surface cracks and crumbling cement arced out next to her feet; a perfect half-circle described upon the ground. Inside the circle the ground was untouched.

She stepped through. Her mind registered an uncomfortable sensation - as if she'd just been scanned. Once in, the zinging presence of the barrier seemed to relax somewhat. Looking around the alley, Miho spotted the two dark lumps at the end. She moved over to inspect them.

She tapped her earpiece. "Michael."

He replied instantly. "Yes?"

"Could you please send someone to my coordinates as quickly as possible? It looks as if we've got a new Witch." Miho surveyed the perfectly shielded alley and thought of the small traces of destruction she'd noticed on her way from the car. She glanced once more at the contorted faces of the two men at her feet. Foam dribbled from mouths that were pulled tight in soundless screams and eyes wide with terror rolled wildly.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"We're making this one our top priority. He's very dangerous."

* * *

They made their way back to the office, Witch subdued. Doujima had suppressed a shudder at the clinical detachment with which the replacement inserted the chip. She was all for messing with people's minds…but figuratively, not literally. She supposed anything was better than the previous two choices: straight out killing; or surrendering them to the depraved clutches of Factory…but now, her spy sense was tingling.

Something was afoot. And it was Doujima's nature to get to the bottom of things.

She indicated, and changed lanes, zippy sports car handling the transition with ease. There _was_ a shorter route, but she wanted to buy a little time, get to know Jabez better.

"The tagging went well tonight," she started conversationally. The hunter said nothing and continued to look out the window. Streetlights flickered over his face, alternately illuminating his features and throwing them into shadow. She tried a different tack.

"Are you from SOLOMON Europe?" Again, no response. "It's just that that's where I'm from, originally. I thought we might have a few mutual friends –"

"No. I'm not. And STN operatives are not friends." The voice was detached, disinterested.

Doujima bristled. "That's not true! Sakaki's an idiot, but we get along fine. Miho's a bit serious and we're still friends. Michael has different interests to me but we can still relate. Chief –" she paused, wondering what to say about the Chief and Hattori. She elected to omit both "- well, you can't say that there are no friendships within the STN."

Jabez turned to look at her. "Have you ever taken the time to meet these 'friends' outside work?"

She frowned at the windscreen. _To tell the truth – no, not really. _The only time she'd ever gone out of her way was when Robin –

"Yes," she replied softly. "I have." Damn, she missed that girl. From the outset, she'd sensed a kindred spirit in the quiet fire Witch. Doujima had felt a right bitch calling her 'stupid' and 'annoying', but it had been necessary to maintain the deception.

He was still looking at her, those startling green eyes unreadable in the dim light of the car. "And where is that friend now?"

She refused to meet his gaze. "She's gone."

Jabez nodded, as if he'd expected her response. He opened his mouth to continue but at that moment a cell phone shrilled. Doujima reached for her phone just as Jabez pulled out his and flipped it open.

"Yes?" he queried sharply.

They were in sight of Raven's flat. Doujima eased the car down the drive and slid into a park. Jabez gave her a quick nod – thanks, she supposed, for the lift – then exited the vehicle. He stood for a moment, speaking into the phone in hushed tones, while Doujima fiddled with the keys, eavesdropping shamelessly. Then he spun on his heel and left the garage.

She got out of the car and leaned back on the bonnet, deep in thought. Curiouser and curiouser. She wondered why he had denied being from SOLOMON Europe…when he'd been speaking German on the phone.

* * *

Amon struggled up the stairs, cursing his choice in hiding places; the _horrible_ timing of the emergence of his Craft; and all of these fucking stairs.

He reached the fourth floor and pushed against the stairwell door, careful to keep Robin's head clear. Then he walked out and cursed every single thing in the entire world, because lounging against the door to their apartment was one very smug Nagira Syunji.

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys...sorry it took so long for the update on this one, and I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a disappointment. You're reading it in its pure, unbeta-ed form so please forgive any errors or awkwardness. Chapter Five is half done...hopefully it won't take me two months to put it up. :( Blame _Full Metal Alchemist _and _Inuyasha._ I'm kind of uncertain as to the tone of this chapter, so I'd appreciate any reviews. ******

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**Oh, and a quick thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, especially the Harry's goers who've checked it out. I love you guys!**


	5. The scene enchanted

_About her steps the trunks are bare, the branches   
Drip heavy tears upon her downcast head;   
And bleed from unseen wounds that no sun staunches,   
For the year's sun is dead. _

_   
And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted:   
And birds that love the south have taken wing.   
The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted,   
Weeps, and despairs of spring. _

From _Elegy_ by Robert Bridges

**Chapter Five: The scene enchanted **Hanamura Mika looked at her boss's empty chair and scowled. Nagira Syunji had to be the most irritating man in the entire world. Everything he did irked her. He was lazy; arrogant; self-serving; manipulative; overbearing and entirely too easily distracted for his own good.

That's what she told herself, anyway.

She tried to concentrate on her work, but it was filing. And menial, mindless tasks prompted her thoughts to wander again. She wondered where he'd gone. Maybe…maybe he'd had word about the delinquent girl? She quashed the stubborn kernel of resentment that sparked at the thought. There was no reason to think ill of the child, especially after what had happened. And yet, he'd been so cheerful after she'd gone – even if, deep down, Mika knew he was screaming inside. But false bravado was easier to stomach than honest grief, and she chose to ignore the fact that Syunji's brother and the delinquent girl…_Robin_…were most likely dead.

Syunji? When had she started to call her boss "Syunji", in her thoughts? She flushed and brought one hand to her heated face. She caught Hirata's eye and pursed her lips in disapproval.

"Surely you have work to do?" she snapped, pushing back her chair and rising. "I'm getting some tea," she announced loudly, leaving the room and disregarding the chuckle that followed her exit.

Mika bashed the teapot onto the bench and added the tealeaves with a shaking hand. She poured in the boiling water and allowed the mix to steep. Bracing her arms on the bench, she let the steam drift over her face and settle heavily on her skin, beading over her foundation.

Nothing had been the same after they'd gone. The counselor – she tried very hard _not _to think of him as Syunji – had become a bit…hollow. In every sense of the word. He worked harder than ever before, she had to admit that, but he seemed distant and distracted. He had to be reminded to eat, sometimes - and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He'd become…brittle. He didn't seem to care about anything. He went through the motions like it didn't matter anymore. But then, this morning –

_He swaggered up to her as she unlocked the front door. _

_   
"Mika!" he'd exclaimed, smiling widely. She could only stare back at him in confusion. "I'll be out of the office today – something's come to my attention. So be a good girl and reschedule my appointments, will you?" _

_   
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, he managed to light it, stow the lighter and brush past her before she found her voice. _

_   
"Counselor!" she cried, running down the stairs after him. "Your diary is booked solid! Mrs Kanamayo will be here any minute, I can't just –" he silenced her again, this time by spinning and placing a finger against her lips. _

_   
They stood for a moment, connected by that one touch. He stared at her, as if willing her to understand something…but she just couldn't concentrate for some reason. Seconds, hours later he stepped back and winked. _

_   
"I'm off to see some long lost friends," he added quietly. He walked away, while she stared after his retreating form, absurdly thankful she hadn't yet applied her lipstick. _

What if…he'd been trying to say…he'd found…

Water traced a path down her cheek and she blinked, coming back to the present. She reached for a mug and busied herself with pouring the tea, telling herself it was just the steam. She was definitely, positively, absolutely not crying.

That's what she told herself, anyway.

* * *

Michael stood in the elevator, hands in pockets, deep in thought. He was doing some mental arithmetic, but two and two were inexplicably making three.

Something was not right.

The cage shuddered to a halt and he waited a moment for the doors to open. He crossed the room and sent the Guard a jaunty wave before making his way through the gate. The other man glanced up from his magazine and did a double take, eying the hacker with surprise. It was almost like he couldn't believe it.

_You and me both, buddy_, Michael though as he let himself out of Raven's Flat. He was feeling better already. With every step away from the forbidding building his heart grew lighter and he felt…he felt like he could breathe again. The STN-J office had somehow become a prison again, and he didn't think he could handle the simmering mistrust a moment longer.

He walked for a while, with no specific direction in mind, just glad to be away from the four walls that had become his entire world. There was life outside of Raven's Flat. He knew it – he researched it – and he wanted to live a little himself.

Squinting, wishing he hadn't left his glasses back at the office, he found himself pulled from his reverie by the sound of humming air conditioners. He looked up. Somehow he'd doubled back on himself and ended up outside Harry's. He stared at the low building for a moment, before shrugging and making his way inside.

He navigated through the labyrinthine corridors, and eventually found himself in the main room. It was all but deserted. A trio of businesswomen shared a table in the corner, conversing quietly, and a male customer had a booth to himself, poring over the sports section of the newspaper. The bartender stood, watching him, drying some glasses.

Strangely embarrassed, Michael made his way to the bar and pulled up a stool. The bartender gave him a gentle smile.

"What can I get you?" he asked, setting the glass down carefully.

Michael ran a hand through his hair. _What did one order at a bar?_ He was obviously underage, and it was too hot for coffee.

"Er, a Bepsi, thank you," he answered, naming the first soda that came to mind. The bartender inclined his head gracefully and walked off to prepare it.

Michael looked around. It was pretty swank, this place. Shiny, ambient…strange there weren't more customers. Of course, he'd been there once before, but there had been more important things to think about than the décor. He'd also been a bit dizzy with the heady rush of defiance, having left Raven's Flat for the first time in two years.

Now, he could leave whenever he wanted. He had the freedom…and he was afraid to use it.

The bartender returned with a tall glass of fizzing liquid, a slice of lemon draped artfully over the rim. Michael took the drink and fiddled awkwardly with the straw.

"It's Michael, isn't it?" the bartender asked, startling him. He nodded and took a big sip of his cola. The bubbles seemed to burn up through his nasal passage and he sputtered noisily, half choking on the drink. The bartender handed him a napkin.

"Thanks," he muttered, ducking his head. _Why did I even come?_

The other man watched him wipe his face. "I hear you have a new Hunter."

Michael nodded. Robin had told him the bartender – what was his name? – was familiar with the goings on in the STN-J. Robin. He took another long drag on his straw. The bartender picked up another glass – or was it the same glass? – and resumed his methodical wiping. Michael's eyes followed the movement of his hands. It was strangely relaxing. Somewhere behind him, water gurgled.

They sat in silence for some time. Kobari Yuji, that was his name! It came to Michael and he felt relieved that he was finally closer to equal terms with the enigmatic barkeep. He gulped down some more cola.

"Do you speak English?" Kobari asked suddenly, startling Michael. He gaped for a moment, then remembering it was impolite to stare, shut his mouth and nodded.

"Not often, anymore, but yeah…I'm actually American." He ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. He didn't look Japanese – wasn't it only to be expected he spoke English? Unless the bartender thought he was from Europe…but everyone spoke English, didn't they? He puzzled over this for a few seconds, until Kobari leant in close and spoke softly, without moving his lips.

"Have you ever heard of a poem called _Jabberwocky_?"

Michael racked his brain, but the memory, if there, proved elusive. His reply was in English, as the bartender's question had been.

"It rings a bell, but I can't say I know it."

Kobari transferred a number of clean glasses to a tray, then carried them over to the sink and set them under the tap.

_So they are the same glasses!_ Michael thought with some satisfaction, having had his hypothesis proven correct.

Wiping his damp hands on his spotless apron, Kobari returned to the counter and fixed Michael a serious look. "The poem is taken from a novel called _Through the Looking Glass_, by Lewis Carroll. You haven't read it?"

Michael swallowed. "Um, no. I didn't have the book, but my sister did."

Kobari nodded gracefully. "Then I'll just tell you a few things about the poem. Its compiled of nonsense words, terms made up especially for the story. They're not real words, but the way they are used tricks us into believing that they are. It was such a believable illusion that now, a century later, some of the terms Carroll created especially for _Jabberwocky_ are accepted as dictionary words."

Plucking a wet glass out of the sink, Kobari resumed his rhythmic drying. Michael furrowed his brow.

"I-" he began, but the bartender interrupted him, quiet voice firm.

"You would be able to find that book at any bookstore in town. I do recommend it. But now, please excuse me." The tall man inclined his head and went to tend to the table of businesswomen.

Michael pushed back his stool and fished a couple of crumpled banknotes out of his pocket. Dropping them on the bar, he made his way outside. He stood for a moment, looking back in the direction of Raven's Flat, before turning resolutely and walking in the opposite direction. Work could wait. It appeared he had some reading to do.

* * *

Amon was stunned. He was unable to do anything aside from standing in stupefaction at finding his brother lounging in their doorway. Nagira pushed himself upright and ambled over to where Amon stood, shocked.

They stayed like that, a moment frozen in place and time, before Nagira sliced effortlessly through the tension that had built between them.

"Hey bro," he said – rather lamely, Amon thought – fishing in his pockets for the ever present packet of cigarettes. Hackles still raised, Amon could only incline his head at the greeting.

"Booyah," he heard his sibling mutter in triumph, pulling the smokes from somewhere in the shadowy depths of his coat. His lighter flared and hissed, and with a clink tendrils of smoke wafted towards the ceiling, spreading through the space between them.

Unable to bear it any longer, Amon shifted Robin until she was cradled in one arm, digging in his duster coat for the keys and slinging them at their unwelcome guest.

"Make yourself useful," he ground out. Nagira chuckled, catching the keys, and moved to open the door. Amon pushed past him and took Robin to her room.

She hung from his arms like a broken doll, one bird-boned arm resting in her lap, the other flapping uselessly out of his hold. She looked so tiny, so fragile, so _defenseless_ that he felt a wave of self-disgust wash over him, seeping in to settle next to the self-loathing and self-remorse. He was her warden, and yet he'd _failed to protect her. _Was he good for nothing, after all?

Amon lowered Robin onto the bed, gently, extracting his hands from beneath her with infinitesimal care. He sat next to her, the beds springs creaking acknowledgement of his weight. Surveying her slight form, he allowed the questions from earlier to dwell in his mind.

First and foremost…what had happened? He'd been too caught up in the adrenaline rush; too concerned for Robin's wellbeing to fully consider the implications of what he'd done. This moment of reflection afforded him the first opportunity to understand what exactly had occurred.

He truly was a Witch. He could no longer dismiss it. He couldn't even ignore it completely, as he preferred to do with things that confused or bothered him.

When faced with irrefutable proof, even Amon Nagira had to admit the truth.

Suddenly lightheaded, Amon found himself kneeling next to the bed, knees pressed against unyielding hardwood. He rested his forehead on the coverlet, one hand reaching blindly for Robin's, grasping it like a lifeline. _Save me, Robin,_ he thought, twisting the cool, slim fingers in his own, _save me from myself. _

He fancied the smooth hand gave his own a gentle squeeze, and his head pains vanished. Unwilling to move, he remained bowed for a moment more, sweet solace in the silent comfort of his ward.

-

Amon returned to the kitchen to find Nagira rifling through the cupboards, sorting through the packaged foods.

"Make yourself at home," he remarked dryly, moving to the small table and lowering his aching body to the larger of the two chairs. His half-brother didn't turn at the sound of Amon's voice, and kept sorting through the dry foots until he seized upon a particular ramen brand.

"Where's your kettle?" he asked casually, lips working around the ever-present cigarette. Too exhausted to even consider the ridiculous nature of the situation, Amon only pointed tiredly to the top of the refrigerator.

Nagira busied himself with preparing his impromptu snack, while only years of training kept Amon sitting upright. He just wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep. _Does Craft take this much out of you, all of the time? Does Robin feel like this? _

"Guess it's true about the mile in the other man's shoes," he muttered to himself in some surprise.

"What you babbling about?" Nagira asked, slurping the completed ramen.

"Nothing that concerns you," Amon replied coldly, suddenly remembering he and Robin were in _hiding_ and that _no one_ was supposed to know their whereabouts.

"How did you find us?"

Nagira smirked, his expression of superiority marred somewhat by the string of noodle hanging from his mouth.

"Little birdie," was his only answer, sparking Amon's tired annoyance to dangerous levels.

"No, I mean it. How did you find us? If you managed to discover our position it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Solomon isn't far behind."

Nagira didn't even flinch in the face of his sibling's ire.

"Let's just say you wouldn't believe me if I told you," he replied, scraping at the ramen. He pointed his chopsticks at Amon. "Well, _you_ wouldn't. When the little miss chooses to wake up, I might explain it to her. I guess a Witch would underst-"

Amon slammed a white-knuckled fist onto the tabletop, startling Nagira and sending the empty Styrofoam container flying.

"It didn't occur to you," he began frostily, "that I would return with Robin unconscious – failing my ward – only in the most extreme of situations? I have no time for childish antics, brother. _How did you find us?_"

Nagira blinked, and gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"Eh, guess you're serious. No helping it then."

Amon watched him, eyes narrowed, and waited while Nagira ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture.

"Well, you see…I dreamt it."

Amon nodded, disbelievingly.

"You dreamt it."

"Yeah, I just had –" he broke off as Amon calmly raised himself from the chair, and didn't move when he grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Amon brought his face close to Nagira's and nearly spat the words at his brother.

"This is not a joke. I don't have time for these imbecilic games of yours. I don't know why you sought us out or even how you found us, but Robin is hurt and I just can't –" he broke off as a mug careened across the counter and crashed to the floor.

Releasing Nagira and whirling around, he noticed the ground was shaking slightly, moving as if by earthquake. The fridge door slanted open, and a carton of milk slipped from the shelf, falling at his feet. He watched, dumb, as the milk pooled around his feet and spread outwards, sluicing over the vinyl in an insidious crawl.

The utensils drawer began to rattle, and steadily grew louder as the tremors increased. His chair knocked itself over with a startling _bang!_ and in the midst of the cacophony Amon could only think _I hope this doesn't wake Robin_. The image of his injured ward was like a splash of cold water, and desperate to halt the quake before anyone else was hurt, he thought as hard as he could -

**_STOP! _**

****  
and then movement ceased.

Just like that, the room stopped shaking. A semblance of normality returned to the kitchen, punctuated only by the slow swing of the refrigerator door.

Nagira reached out and gently pushed it shut. Amon looked away, unwilling to see the judgment in his brother's eyes. He could almost hear Nagira's jumbled thoughts and feelings of confusion; and dwelling on these, he missed the look of understanding sent his way before Nagira got to his feet and broke the heavy silence.

"Well, I know where you are now, so I can drop by at a more convenient time."

Leaving the irony and a repentant Amon behind, Nagira left the apartment.

* * *

Once safely outside, Nagira rested his forehead against the cool wall, exhaling in a shuddering heave. This close, he could see hairline fractures splicing the brick, evidence of what had happened moments ago. Not privy to Amon's silent musing; he'd nevertheless seen the signs. It had happened. Just like he knew it would.

But he hadn't expected it to be like this.

Sighing, he shrugged, and pulled himself away from the wall. He lipped a cigarette from his packet and started the trek downstairs, deciding to return sometime next week. Amon had some questions to answer…

And one of them was just how exactly the Eve of Witches had been rendered unconscious.

* * *

Jabez felt the Hunt had been a success. Karasuma had cornered the Witch and was working to deflect any Craft attempts while he'd readied the tranquilizer and chip. He'd then worked to tag their quarry, noting with some amusement Karasuma's averted eyes and rigid stance. Of course, it didn't surprise him. It had been obvious from the beginning his partner was sickened by the new methods adopted by the STN-J.

"Would you prefer we terminated them?" he asked her quietly as they made their way back to her car, parked several streets away. She's started at his sudden question, and it was a struggle to hide his satisfaction at her obvious discomfort.

"I…er…as a Craft user…"

"And what is the difference between a Craft user and a Witch?" he interrupted smoothly, a carefully inserted note of genuine query making it seem anything but practiced.

Karasuma seemed almost indignant.

"That's the very first thing we learn in our training! That a Witch uses their Craft for malicious purposes with intent to harm others, and that a Craft user has to come to terms with their…"

She hesitated and Jabez wondered cruelly what word she was searching for. _Gift? Affliction?_

"…powers, and either live without them or use them for the good of all mankind."

"But essentially," he countered, "the Witch and the Craft user both have the same…_powers_. Is that correct?"

His partner nodded slowly, face frozen.

"So the only difference lies in the mind?"

Karasuma rounded on him. "What exactly are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, it's only conjecture –"

"Every human has a comparative level of strength and wit, but only certain percentages are inclined towards violence. They choose to use their proportionate abilities for a harmful cause. Psychology plays a deciding factor in all such matters!"

She stopped as they reached the car, but her impassioned words hung between them for the rest of the awkward return to Raven's Flat.

As the elevator made its painful ascent to the office, Jabez couldn't help but ask,

"Every human with the capacity for violence is still a human, according to your theory. That makes every Witch a Craft user…so then what of the opposite? Is every Craft user a Witch, within?"

The elevator doors opened and Jabez made his exit. _One down,_ he thought, sneaking a glance back at a frowning Karasuma, following him slowly.

Sakaki looked up as he entered the office.

"Oh, hey Jabez," he said, giving him a crooked smile. Jabez nodded, moving to his seat, noting Doujima napping at her desk. Michael was nowhere to be seen, but the computer boy could wait. _Just a couple more to go. _

-

Mindful of the furtive looks Karasuma kept sending him, Jabez worked quietly for the rest of the day, and made his escape around dinnertime.

He returned to his apartment and went directly to the bathroom, wanting to verify something that had been nagging at him all afternoon. Leaning over the basin so as to get a closer look at the mirror, he reached up and parted his hair, pressing it hard against his scalp.

"Shit," he muttered. The nagging feeling had been spot on. Amongst the black fibres, close to the scalp, was a very faint regrowth of pale ginger hair.

* * *

**This chapter was muchos setting up, so sorry if it didn't excite anyone ****:( And an ambiguous chapter ending that came partly from my inability to end things well and partly from my own impatience in wanting to get this up as soon as possible. **

**   
Sorry for the delay! I've actually got precious little plot and planning done for this story, so updates rely heavily on the whims of my muses. This chapter hasn't even been beta-ed. I've also been knee-deep in manga, so direct any residual anger towards Alice 19th; Kodocha; Hot Gimmick; Kimi wa Pet; Hana Yori Dango; Snowdrop; Zettai Kareshi; Kamikaze Kaitou Jeanne…and, well, a whole lot more. **

**   
Thanks to everyone who reviews, and all those patient people who have stuck with this story. I hope the next update comes a lot sooner. Till then, bye! **


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